


Shiver

by thedevilchicken



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Barebacking, Dream Sex, Dreams and Nightmares, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Identity Issues, Loss of Virginity, Manipulative Sheev Palpatine, Mind Manipulation, Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Underage Sex, Rape/Non-con Elements, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21515605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Padmé has strange dreams. Sometimes they seem quite real.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Sheev Palpatine
Comments: 4
Kudos: 80
Collections: Naughty List 2019





	Shiver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [indigo_inks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigo_inks/gifts).



> Please bear in mind that Padmé is, in explicit flashbacks, most definitely very underage in this fic. We're talking 13ish.
> 
> Set in movie canon only. Ignores non-movie sources such as _Queen's Shadow_ , etc.

Padmé dreams. 

Usually, they're nothing particularly out of the ordinary: she dreams about home, waterfalls so fine they look like a fountain of salt from a distance, domed roofs covered up in verdigris and palace gardens where she'd liked to walk sometimes, when she slipped her guard at night. Sometimes she dreams about other places that she's been to or people that she's met, or ridiculous things, like speaking in the senate in her underwear or realising she missed a class at school and now, years later, she has to go back or she can't keep her seat on the senate. 

Mostly, her dreams are unremarkable. But, every now and then, she has another kind of dream completely. 

She remembers the first time. She was still at school then, with all the other young aspiring politicians all eager to serve Naboo. She slept in the dormitory with five other girls, each to their own simple single bed, and they'd just returned from a field trip to Coruscant. She washed and dressed for bed and then the house mistress turned out the lights and exhausted as she was from the excitement of the trip, Padmé went straight off to sleep. Except when she opened her eyes again, she was alone in the room. She could hear absolutely nothing, no breathing, no faint voices of their teachers down the hall, not the cooks starting the bread, not the city outside that only ever quieted and never really slept. There was nothing. It seemed wrong. So she left her bed, inquisitive as ever, to see what she could find. 

What she found, initially, was nothing. There was no one in the school, as if they'd all just up and left. Comms, when she tried them, just crackled with disconcerting static, and outside there was no one in the streets at all. She couldn't find any trace of them, as if they'd all just vanished into the air, and she had to admit she felt just a little panic. But then she noticed it, there in the debating chamber. She'd never seen that door before, leading off from the back of the podium. In fact, she was positive it hadn't been there before. 

The otherwise unassuming wooden door had a big, traditional metal lock with a keyhole in it. When she tried the handle, it didn't open. But she felt something then, noticed it for the first time though she should have known it from the moment that she'd woken; there was a key the length of her palm and middle finger hanging on a chain around her neck, between her breasts beneath her nightdress, cool though her skin should have warmed it by then. She pulled it out and off over her head. When she tried it in the lock, the mechanism gave a strange, grave clunk, and when she turned the handle, the door that shouldn't have been there swung open. 

There was a staircase behind it, a tight spiral sweeping down into the city bedrock, with a plasma lantern hanging from a hook. She unhooked the lantern, and it was heavy, and as she started down the stairs she wished she'd thought to put on a pair of shoes or at least slippers. The stone steps were ice cold under her bare feet and she shivered, making the lantern swing on her way down. When she came to the foot of the stairs, deep down, maybe deeper than she'd ever been, the spiral so narrow it made her head spin, the lantern was still swinging gently, and the shadows that its blue light cast made all the stone seem black. 

The room was huge, cavernous, but clearly not natural. A small stone bridge led over a strange kind of carved-down moat that circled the room's edge, filled by water streaming down the high walls. The air felt damp, the stone under her feet was slick, and until a second light flickered into life at the far side of the hall, she would have said it was completely empty. But there was a figure standing there. A hooded figure in a long, dark cloak. Dim. In the distance, behind a veil of water pouring down neatly like a shimmering pane of glass. She went toward it, her heart thumping in her chest, but something like a gentle pressure in her head seemed to tell her that she shouldn't be afraid. The figure behind the veil wouldn't hurt her. He really didn't mean her any harm. 

When she passed through that veil, the water drenched her utterly from head to toe. As she went toward the figure - it was standing by a broad stone table, like an altar - she tried to pull the fabric of her wet nightdress away from her skin but it clung to her, so thoroughly soaked that it was virtually transparent, and she felt herself blush in the chilly air. She shivered. And the figure told her, a kind voice from beneath the hood, "You should take that off before you catch your death." 

It seemed like such an embarrassing idea, but it seemed like such a wonderful idea. She put the lantern on the ground, she plucked the buttons at the neckline open, and she pulled the fabric up and off over her head; it wasn't easy, and it kept on clinging, and she felt her face being to burn from the idea of it, but then it was done and she held the dripping nightdress out to him. He patted the altar, so she put it down there. And she thought about covering herself but he'd already seen, so somehow it seemed a little silly now. 

"Are you cold, Padmé?" he asked. 

She nodded. Her long, wet hair dragged against her bare back, clinging like her nightdress had. She was dripping onto the floor. She could see her breath on the air. Her nipples were so hard from the cold that they hurt. 

"Yes," she replied. 

"Come to me. Let me warm you up." 

She knew he wouldn't hurt her. The pressure in her head said he wouldn't hurt anyone, he only wanted to help. He was kind and he was sorry she was cold and wet. So she went to him, at the other side of the altar, and his pale hands came up to rest at her shoulders. He was warm, so warm, impossibly warm, and she shivered at it deeply because somehow that only made her feel the cold more sharply. 

He seemed to understand without her telling him a single word. He slid his hands down her arms, down to her wrists, squeezing lightly there like he was feeling for her pulse. He raised his hands again and pushed her wet hair back over her shoulders. Then he trailed his hands down past her collarbones and cupped her chilly breasts. His warm skin against her nipples made her gasp out loud, though she could barely hear it over the pouring of the water down the walls. His warm skin against her nipples made her blush and something down between her thighs feel hot. 

She looked at him, or at least she tried to, but it was like there was no face under the hood, just shadow. He pinched her nipples lightly between the sides of his first and second fingers, and she bit her lip, and she flexed her hands - she didn't want to ball them into fists in case he stopped, but maybe jabbing her nails into her palms would have made her feel less tense. 

"Are you concerned, Padmé?" he asked. "Don't you feel warmer? Would you like me to stop?"

She shook her head. She swallowed. "No," she said. "No, please don't stop." And somehow she knew the shadow in the hood was smiling. She couldn't even imagine saying anything else instead. 

She understood, or at least she thought she did. She wasn't naive; she would leave school soon, and go into politics, and she understood so many things about her planet and the galaxy and how those things were served and governed. And it wasn't like they hadn't learned biology, or like the other girls in the school didn't talk - some of them had boyfriends, girlfriends, and they liked to tell the others all about the things they did. She'd felt the same exciting kind of warmth in her when they'd told her their stories as she did then; she could feel his hands on her, feel his gaze on her even if she couldn't see it, and it made that warmth a little hotter. It was like the times she'd touched herself under the sheets when everybody else was sleeping, trying not to make a sound. 

She didn't want him to stop, and he didn't. She wanted to be just like the other girls - not just gifted in her lessons but... _experienced_. So when he had her hop up onto the altar and perch there on the very edge with her bare legs dangling, when his warm hands parted her knees that she'd carefully kept closed and she felt a very private part of her pull very slightly open, she let him. Then he trailed one forefinger across her lips and then down, over her chin, her throat, one collarbone, her sternum in between her goosefleshed breasts. He trailed it down and she tried not to shift against the altar stone as his fingertip dipped into her navel and then went _down_ , between her thighs. It felt like a brand against her skin as he ran his fingertip against the place her labia almost but not quite met, with her legs so wide. Inside, her muscles clenched and fluttered. She wondered what he'd do next. 

He slipped his finger back a little, to her opening, and she could feel how wet she was there when he teased her with his fingertip. Then he stepped back and she wondered if she'd been wrong, if she'd done something wrong, but then he pushed the cloak back and away from his shoulders. Her stomach lurched. Underneath, his body was a man's, just a normal man's, naked, soft in places, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. But his face...there was nothing where his face should have been except a kind of dark-light blur that made her feel a little ill to look at. It was like she wasn't meant to see, or like she could but her brain just couldn't make much sense of it. But he was so kind, and so warm, and the careful, confident way he touched her said she shouldn't be concerned. She just looked away from his not-face, looked down, as he wrapped one hand around his manhood and began to stroke. 

Other times, later, he'd put his mouth between her thighs and taste her with his tongue. Other times, he'd slip his fingers into her and stroke himself while she shifted her hips to try to take his fingers deeper. Other times, he'd guide her mouth to the tip of his cock or stroke until he came against the folds between her thighs. That time, though, that first time, he ran his hot hands over her thighs and let his newly-stiffened cock rest against her belly. It leaked against her skin but she didn't mind, and then he pushed it down. He eased it down. The wet tip of it nudged between her wet lips. As he pushed it in, as he had her in that way that no one else had had her, she clenched and gasped. 

She remembers how hot it felt, like his thick, blunt erection was heating her up from the inside out. She remembers how tight she felt around him, and how huge he felt inside her, and how one of his hot hands went down to rub slow circles against her clitoris. She liked that. No one had ever touched her there before, except herself, and his touch was warm and the pressure firm. She liked the way he felt inside her, too, how he stretched her, warmed her, filled her up. She gripped the edge of the altar and she felt her hips move, felt her cheeks burn, felt her gaze drawn down to the place that he pushed into her. And she wondered if the other girls had really done this or if the fact was that she'd got there first. 

He moved. She held on tight to the altar's edge and he moved, the length of him rubbing in her, making her breath hitch. He rubbed her clitoris and it made her pull even tighter around him and she groaned, her voice sounding tight and high and not very much like her at all. He pushed in deep and then he stilled again and he rubbed her, faster, and she pushed against him, and it felt good, so she let her hips shift just enough so she moved around him, tight and breathless. She kept going, he kept going, until she was leaning back, toes curled, sliding against the altar, fucking herself on his length. She'd never even thought of doing that before. 

When she came, she came with a cry and an embarrassed blush and a squeeze around him that somehow made the orgasm just feel so much better than the ones she'd had alone, somehow, though some of the other girls had said their partners never made them feel like that. And then he moved, leaning forward, pushing deep, and she could feel herself still almost trembling around him as he hissed in a breath and then finished inside her. 

He pulled out. He pulled his cloak back on and pulled up the hood and Padmé sat there, on the chilly stone, feeling his hot semen drip from inside her. He stepped back in, ran one hand between her thighs, made her shiver as he pressed two fingers into where his cock had been then brought them to her mouth so she could suck them clean again. She sucked, her tongue curling around his fingers, and it wasn't until after, when she'd walked naked back across the room, up the stairs, back to the dormitory, that she even thought to question what she'd done. 

"You're a very good girl, Padmé," he told her, as he pressed her knees back closed together, and she liked how hearing that made her feel. "I think you'll make a wonderful queen." But when she got back to her bed, and lay down, she could still feel his come inside her, on her, trickled halfway down her thighs. She closed her eyes. She opened them again, and everyone else was back. The flush of shame she felt when she realised how wet she was just from her dream was hot and sharp, but there wasn't a trace of his come on her, and her nightdress was bone dry. 

She remembers the morning after that first time, in class, staring at the wall where the door had been. She remembers afterwards, running her hands over the wall, and feeling nothing there at all. She slept, and hoped, but it didn't reappear for almost another full month, but then there it was. She remembers how pleased she was to have the dream again.

She remembers moving to the palace, taking up her place as queen just like he'd said she would, and how she'd almost thought that what was happening might stop. But, one night, she woke to silence and the same door appeared there in the throne room. She remembers how relieved she was when she felt the key around her neck and took the long walk down into the water, and the dark and cold, to feel his warmth. 

She's never told a soul about the dreams she has, not while she ran for office, or sat as queen, and not now she's a senator. She keeps them to herself, and just thinks of them from time to time, some more vividly than others. Like the day she came to Coruscant to take her senate seat, and like today. 

She sits on her bed, in her apartment in the city. Her security is outside but in here she's alone, now she's returned from the chancellor's office. And while she was there, her mind wandered, just like it did the first time she was there as Naboo's senator. She remembers how the room seemed to darken, and how Palpatine's words seemed to slur. She remembers how his face began to blur, until she couldn't stand to look at it, but he felt so different, so familiar, and all their disagreements seemed to fade until Palpatine was someone else. 

"You're still such a good girl, Padmé," he said, the first time, and she felt herself blush and shift in her seat. "You've come so far. I'm proud of you." He stood, and Palpatine's robes shivered darker, like _his_ robes, and he came around the desk to her. "Would you like me to show you how proud I am?"

She nodded. She stood. "Yes," she said, and she bent down low over the desk. He lifted her elaborate dress. And that time, for the first time, when he entered her it hurt, but only for a little while. He cleaned her after, carefully, wiping all his come away, before she blinked and the chancellor was speaking. But when she returned to her apartment, she still ached down there, though she knew it must be nothing. 

Today, though, she takes off her clothes and she sits on her bed and she lies back against the pillows. She parts her thighs and squeezes tight between them, making her face feel hot with it as she thinks about what her daydream said they did. He fucked her in the chancellor's office, bent over the desk just like the first time, but her front-fastening dress hung open and left her breasts exposed. She remembers wondering if any of the passengers in senatorial transports passing the window might glance in and see them there, but no one turned to look. 

And now, when she slips her fingers in, when she brings them up and sucks on them, she's almost sure she can taste him there. 

Padmé dreams. And those dreams seem more real to her sometimes than others.


End file.
